


i wanna touch on you (you see me in my room)

by astankovas



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Smut, and also her biggest fan, do you like pornhub? then you’ll love pornhub live, eve is her new office job boss, match made in heaven, v is a camgirl
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:13:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27472552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astankovas/pseuds/astankovas
Summary: in which eve recognises her new college-grad intern from a very specific website she subscribes toorvillanelle is eve’s favourite camgirl and eve is villanelle’s boss and they can totally keep their secrets from one another
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 106
Kudos: 320





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> youve heard of friends-to-lovers and enemies-to-lovers. 
> 
> now get ready for i-feel-too-awkward-to-talk-to-you-because-i-know-too-much-about-your-personal-life-so-i-will-simply-avoid-you-to-lovers

Eve was promised — a crossed pinkies, spit on hands, swear on a dog’s life type of promise — that she would never, ever have to train a new intern ever again. 

It’s a job that’s been thrown onto her back consistently for the past twenty years, being forced against her will to regularly fraternise with baby-faced, fresh out of college graduates half her age with little to no industry or life experience. Nothing to bond over, nothing real in common. Rarely does an internship ever lead to a fixed contract job either, so for the most part it’s a waste of time and waste of resources and waste of labour. Not to mention the added stress and reports and targets and courses the trainer has to put them through and take responsibility for. An intern sucks? The trainer gets the backlash. An intern’s work doesn’t get done? The trainer has to stay back after hours to finish it. And Eve was promised she’d never have to do it again. Promised that if she worked her ass off in all sorts of training courses and managerial meetings and interviews with CEOs to get promoted to deputy manager, she’d never have to do the shitty assistant manager jobs ever again. She bent over backwards and jumped over hurdles to progress to where she is now, competing with upwards of fifty other managers nationwide for the job, and eventually landing it after months of never-ending stress. All to avoid the shitty assistant manager jobs. 

Yet here she is, ten minutes before her shift ends with a final unread email sitting boldly in her inbox announcing that she is to be the one to train not just one, but three marketing department interns starting tomorrow. There’s no in-person correspondence because they know she’d flip her shit, not even a phone call. Just an email. ‘Apologies’ it says, ‘The new staff trainer is on maternity leave’ it says. Eve doesn’t think it’s an exaggeration that she should get out of her hospital bed mid-labour to come do her fucking job — anything to mean she doesn’t have to do it. 

Eve curses the extra workload she’ll have to take up on top of her original workload, combined with her new all-consuming role in shift leading and approvals for her entire department. She curses the deadlines she’ll inevitably miss and the stress-induced migraines that’ll keep her up at night and the overtime she’ll never get paid for. Maybe upping her Ativan dose and taking shots before work won’t be such a bad idea from now. She makes a mental note to buy a scratch-card on the way home on the off chance she might win millions, immediately quit her job and go live it up in the Bahamas. 

Of course, it’s not the worst workplace in the world. As a self confessed workaholic, there’s a lot of work for Eve to busy herself with and she’s progressed onto one of the highest positions in the company, giving her plenty of power and influence within her role. When she was a young 23-year-old college graduate, grizzled from getting bossed around by every single one of her male superiors throughout her undergrad, she made a vow to never take anyone’s shit ever again, working her way up the managerial ladder almost immediately. From there, she gradually made her way up every couple of years until she was the boss of every coworker who ever underestimated her. Now she’s the one to boss people around. The money’s great, affording her a decent three-bedroom detached house in a friendly London suburb, a nice car and nice clothes and enough money to spoil her cat with all the treats and toys his little heart could ever desire. It’s a very comfortable, albeit pretty lonely living. 

With a long, drawn out sigh, Eve gets ready to sign off and finally leave for the night, gathering up her paperwork and bags and jacket and keys and —

_Shit._

It’s 6:52pm. And a twenty minute drive back home. And Eve has very, very important business to attend to back home at 7 that she can’t miss. She never, ever misses. All her coworkers know better than to keep her back from her ominous ‘business’ every other evening, no questions asked, and so she’s practically running to her car in a bid to lose as little time as possible. Business doesn’t wait. 

The business in question is Villanelle — a camgirl and amateur porn actress that Eve just happens to be a little bit in love with. Or very in love with, if she’s honest. Not in a weird way, just in a respect, admiration and fantastical way. Everything the girl does just enraptures Eve, be it telling the camera fun stories about her day or removing an item of clothing for every $10 she receives or touching herself and moaning exaggeratedly for her mostly middle-aged audience or choking as she sucks a guy off on her knees. She’s just pretty and fascinating and addictive. Since discovering her camshows around a year ago, Eve has rarely missed a single show, memorising her live schedule and rearranging her real-life work and real-life commitments around them. And it’s not weird. Everyone’s entitled to hobbies and private use of their free time, and this is how Eve likes to spend hers. Nothing wrong with that. 

Eve’s been known to spend somewhat excessive amounts of money on Villanelle — from her membership fees to mid-show tips to exclusive paid videos to Amazon Wishlist spending sprees. Seeing the look on the object of her affection’s face when Eve surprises her with something of monetary value is so much more rewarding than buying anything for herself could ever be, and it’s always good etiquette not to freeload when it comes to sex workers. Villanelle is happy to play the girlfriend role if you pay her, thanking each tipper personally and going along with whatever they want her to do. So Eve has a pretty girl to spoil and compliment and gush over without the complexities of a real life girlfriend, all the benefits and none of the downsides. It’s a win-win for both parties. 

Villanelle always recognises Eve by her display name and her signature comment of, _Hey sweetheart, how was your day?_ and hearing her perky little “Hey Eve! My day was great, how was yours?” is all the serotonin Eve thinks she could ever need for the rest of her life. So screw a real relationship. There’s no time in her life for a real one, so there’s no harm in a fake one. 

The traffic’s too slow, roads too busy, Eve’s car suddenly lower in gas than she thought and everyone seems dead set on driving straight into her. Villanelle doesn’t wait, though. Eve’s phone vibrates where it sits in her cup holder, alerting her that Villanelle’s live, a notification she never normally needs because she never normally forgets. But now, backed up on the highway ten minutes from home, it’s a reminder of the moments with her girl she’s missing out on. She should be one of the first on the stream, rapidly typing to be the first of Villanelle’s regulars to greet her. It’s an unspoken competition every stream between Eve and four other regulars, all fighting to get in the first _hey sexy_ or _show feet?_

And Eve’s not obsessed with a camgirl. She’s just a fan. Supporting the crumbling sex work industry. Helping out a small business. Boosting the economy. That’s all this is. 

Or that’s what she tries to convince herself as she gets home at 7:15, pulls out her laptop and frantically plugs in the charger for Villanelle’s Wednesday live stream, hand down her pants as she watches her girl ride a glittery pink dildo suction cupped to her bedroom wall while moaning out “Mommy.”

\- - -

It’s a Thursday and where Eve should be relatively task-free, with no meetings or conference calls or backlog, she’s stuck preparing a day plan for three new interns that she couldn’t care less about. Her friends joke around about it in the background, knowing just how hard Eve had to work in order to never get this job again. In a way, it’s kind of funny. It’s joining a long list of things that haven’t gone Eve’s way recently and if she can’t laugh about them, then she’ll cry about them. It’s probably karma for not giving money to the last homeless person she walked by or for stepping on her cat’s tail on accident last week. Or maybe one of the higher ups has got it in for her, doing everything in their power to make her quit. Either way, maybe she deserves it. Or maybe no one does. 

There’s nothing like abandoning your own ever-growing pile of work to take on three more ever-growing piles of work. 

So no one can blame her for half-sulking down the hallways as she makes her way down to reception to pick the newbies up and show them around. It’s all autopilot at this point. Eve knows every question they’ll ask and every emotion they’ll exhibit and every nervous tic and smart-ass comment. They’ll be part of a long bloodline of Eve’s failed interns who couldn’t take the pressure of the company and either dropped out or got fired. Eve knows better than to dream big for these kids, because it’s never got her very far with her last hundred. 

The master at everything was once a beginner, Eve tries to remind herself as she steps foot into reception and scans for any three young, scared looking newbies, only to find them already in a friendly conversation with the receptionist. 

“Oh, hi Eve! This is Eve, your department leader and trainer. Any of your questions, concerns or ideas should go straight to her. She’s always here to help, she’ll look after you guys.” The receptionist chirps before turning to introduce each of them. 

Introductions are boring and Eve wants to go home. 

The first intern she makes eye contact with is nothing to write home about, a scrawny young boy who looks too young to have graduated high school, let alone college. He yields an overwhelmingly upper class accent under his gormless exterior and almost knocks Eve over with the enthusiasm of the handshake he forces upon her. Pushy, annoying and weird. He’s introduced as David, a name Eve forgets mere seconds after she’s told it. 

There is absolutely no reason for Eve to be particularly warm to any of these interns, simply training them until they know what they’re doing and then setting them free after a week or so like they’re caged birds. Maybe Eve’ll bump into each of them in the canteen months down the line and they’ll exchange smiles and head nods. It’s never any more than that. They’ll inevitably get fired unless they’re exceptionally special, which in this already saturated industry is very, very unlikely.

The second intern is older and stockier than the first, maybe in his late thirties, brown hair speckled with the genesis of grey. His suit is un-ironed, beard patchy and unconnected. He’s introduced as Jacob, and Eve has to stop herself from screwing her nose up at his shaky, overly clammy palm as she shakes it. The pungent smell of body odour wafting by her nose is pretty unmissable, too. Sweaty, awkward and gross. Judging by the crumbs in his beard alone, she’ll sit this boy furthest away from her. 

And finally, there’s a girl. And for a millisecond, everything’s fine. Everything’s normal. Nothing’s weird. Eve definitely knows this girl’s face from somewhere, but maybe she’s a cashier in the grocery store near her house or maybe she walks her dog on the same path Eve takes her morning jogs. Maybe she’s the daughter of an employee who looks unmistakably similar to her parent, securing this internship through blatant nepotism or maybe she’s just a passerby Eve has spotted while people-watching out of her office window. 

But she’s not. Like, so far from not.

It only takes a millisecond for Eve to realise she has seen every single inch of this girl’s body, seen her fuck herself with vibrators of all shapes and sizes in both holes. Eve has literally hundreds of videos saved in organised files on her laptop of this girl. Videos of her gagged and bound, videos of her riding a sybian, videos of her double penetrating her ass with two dildos, videos of her having sex with men and women (sometimes at the same time). Eve’s watched her role play as a student, a teacher, a nurse, a stepsister, a cop, a prisoner and dressed as fucking Mrs Claus last Christmas. She’s seen her covered in molten candle wax and watched her squirt and heard her cry from overstimulation. 

So what now?

“And this is,” Villanelle. That’s Villanelle. In the flesh. Not even two feet away from her. Staring right at her. “Oksana.”

And Villanelle’s enthusiastically reaching out to shake her hand just as the previous boys had done so casually, but Eve finds herself this time just staring at the outstretched hand instead, unable to do much else. Frozen in fear. This is not real. And she knows exactly where that hand’s been and it feels uncomfortable as shit sitting on this information right now. Deciding against making this situation any more awkward than it needs to be, Eve reaches for the soft, confident hand and shakes it briefly, struggling to make any eye contact as she does. She can literally feel the blood pull away from her face as their skin touches. 

Of all the ways Eve fantasised about touching Villanelle, it was never like this. 

This wasn’t meant to happen. Villanelle is supposed to be safely tucked away in Eastern Europe, probably street walking as her main hustle and camming as her side. She should be sucking dick for cash in hand or roleplaying as someone’s sexy stepmom over a phone line, giving jerk off instructions to forty year old men in their mother’s basement. The last place she should be is in Eve’s respectable, world renowned office building in London, shaking hands with her and introducing herself to her colleagues in a tailored black suit. Eve isn’t exactly surprised that Villanelle isn’t the model’s real name, but hearing her be referred as something else is fucking with her brain and the girl’s innocent gaze is boring holes into her skull and this is probably how Eve is going to die. Seriously, she might spontaneously combust at any given moment, the heat rash spreading from her chest up to her neck giving her body a headstart. 

“Nice to meet you, Eve!” Villanelle, or Oksana, chirps, her accent just as thick and voice just as airy as it is on cam. (And Eve can’t help but cast her mind back to a custom video she once paid for of Villanelle exaggeratedly moaning out her name while touching herself. She makes a mental note to never, ever watch it again. If she can find a way to vacuum her hippocampus and wipe the video from her memory for good, she’ll do that too.)

“Good to meet you guys.” Eve manages to force out, focusing her attention on the floor instead of the intense, all-consuming stare from this girl. This girl she’s spent shameful amounts of money on spoiling and tipping. This girl she’s shaped her Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights around, sometimes cancelling her real-life plans for. This girl she’s fantasised about meeting for the past year under every circumstance under the sun except this one. This girl whose soft, naïve gaze feels like it’s leaving deep, fiery blisters all over Eve’s body. 

Eve’s head is reeling and all she can focus on is how Villanelle’s so much taller than she imagined. It’s actually pretty surprising, as one of Villanelle’s camming selling points is how small she is. Men in particular get off on her small waist and small hands and small butt and small boobs and if Eve thinks about it too much it might be kinda creepy, so she doesn’t. Her whole online persona is based around how tiny and innocent she looks and how she’d be so easy to pick up and have your way with and how she can fit seemingly impossibly big objects inside herself. In reality, she’s easily 5’10 with big hands and an intimidating posture, towering over Eve and standing equally as tall as most men in the room. Maybe she’s good at camera angles or maybe she’s just good at making her audience believe whatever she says. Maybe if she says she’s 5’1 and 100lbs, no one will question it. Villanelle is and always has been a fantasy, to Eve and to everyone. 

Her eyes are brighter and her hair is blonder than it looks on cam and Eve can feel the tsunami of dread crash over her, drenching her to the bone. It must be all over Eve’s face that she knows exactly who this girl is. 

And when Eve’s sick, secret obsession is inevitably exposed to her entire office, she can only hope Oksana will let her down lightly. 

Maybe it’s a sick joke, and she’s being pranked. Maybe someone hired Villanelle to come here to humiliate Eve. Villanelle can surprise her and they can all laugh it off and it’ll be super embarrassing but short-lived and Eve can get on with her professional life unscathed. But literally no one knows about her interest in this cam model so no one could pull off something like this on purpose. Plus, Villanelle’s premiums are too high to do shit like this. 

She’s really just here. 

And Eve feels like she might throw up everywhere. 

“So, um... welcome. I’ll be your trainer for the first few weeks until you guys are feeling confident. I’m deputy manager and team leader of the marketing department so everything you do here has to go through me first.” This spiel has been recited by Eve dozens of times over the years, with a steady flow of questionably competent young interns joining her office at varying points throughout every year. Never has Eve ever had a reason to be nervous around a single one of them until now. 

Eve wonders if they can hear the shake in her voice, see the red rising to her cheeks, feel the suddenly uncomfortable atmosphere in the room. The interns are wide-eyed and excited, having stepped into the main office of one of the most well-known and respected insurance companies in the country. It’s admittedly difficult to land an opportunity like this. It doesn’t help that the man it serves happens to be obsessed with “holistic working conditions,” meaning there’s areas with artificial grass and beanbags and flat screen TVs. Every room without fail is covered in potted plants, real and fake, and the open plan nature means colleagues can freely discuss tasks and gossip about their co-workers. There’s free high-end coffee machines for every department and thirty minutes of group mindfulness per day. To Eve, it feels superficial. To the newbies, it’s amazing and new and different and their questions are never-ending and overwhelming and the light fog in Eve’s brain has graduated to thick smoke. 

“You have a beautiful office.” Eve hears Oksana marvel behind her as she leads them through the halls of their new workplace, the unmistakably familiar accent sending a sharp chill down her spine. She’s heard Villanelle whisper sultry sweet nothings in that accent every other night for the past year, heard her read out viewers’ horny comments and tell random little safe-for-work stories. It’s a voice Eve’s so accustomed to but in this environment it’s not welcome and the panic is rising further and further up her stomach and she needs to get herself away from it. 

Eve’s initial attempt to convince herself that this girl isn’t Villanelle, but just another pretty Slavic girl went to shit very, very quickly, because there’s no way it’s not her. All Eve can do is focus on not turning around and not making eye contact. She’ll sit Oksana even further away from her own desk for today and delegate training and email approvals to another member of staff until she forgets. 

Forgets, unsubscribes, deletes her saved videos, smashes her laptop into pieces and burns all the evidence. 

If Eve focuses too much on the beating of her heart or the lump in her throat or the panic tingling down to the tips of her extremities, she’ll probably pass out. Right now, she has to look straight ahead and get the interns to some sort of desks. She inwardly curses the hot desking environment in their department, meaning one day Oksana could be at the opposite side of the room to Eve, and then the next day sitting right next to her. This whole situation is an amalgamation of doom and dread and she’ll start working on a new resumé tonight. A McDonald’s application form has never sounded so appealing. 

The male interns ask her more and more questions about the facilities and systems they’ll be using, telling Eve all this useless information about their studies and their experience in an attempt to gain her respect. Eve passively answers them as if on autopilot without taking in much, head completely focused on something else, someone else. 

Paranoia hits next. What if Oksana knows? Surely she’s come across fans in her real life before, she must know how they react by now. She’s consistently been a top creator on her streaming platform for the past year and she puts out some of the most regular content on the site. Surely she knows. 

Eve’s spitting out words automatically, feeling woozier by the second as her legs threaten to give out. The regular bustling of colleague conversations and phones persistently ringing and printers groaning are getting quieter by the second as Eve tries to grapple with the fact that her year-long infatuation is trodding along behind her, asking about about her embarkation training plans and schedule frequency and it’s all a lot all at once. 

It’s probably all just a dream. 

“This is the office space you guys will be working at.” Eve stutters, coughing to cover up her nerves to no avail. Her face is drained of colour and her body feels numb and she can’t remember what happened five seconds ago and she’s far too overwhelmed for any of this. “Sorry, I’m feeling really lightheaded. You guys take a seat here, I’ll grab a supervisor to come talk to you guys.”

Neither of the three interns react much to Eve’s distressed state, just smiling sympathetically and beginning to talk amongst themselves, comparing experience and discussing where they studied and Eve can’t get away from them fast enough. Quitting definitely feels like the right move in this moment. 

“Hey, Julia. Do you mind If I leave early? I don’t feel good, need to leave before I pass out.” She’s asking the most inexperienced supervisor of them all. Eve’s technically her boss, yet she’s asking permission to leave her own office. Her head’s understandably a bit fucked. Nothing could’ve thrown her off track quite like this. 

“Shit, Eve, you’re white as a ghost. I’ve never seen you like this. Are you alright to drive home? We could ask at reception if anyone can drive you?”

“I’ll be fine. Could you look after my interns, though? If you could just briefly teach them the systems and give them data input work, I can do the rest tomorrow.” The realisation of having to see Oksana again tomorrow is making the dread hit twice as hard. And the day after, and the day after, and the day after. Maybe if Eve’s as hostile as possible, Oksana will quit. Maybe she can ignore her and give her all the shit jobs and impossibly raise her targets and she’ll have no choice. 

Words are coming out a mile a minute as Eve feels the vomit rising up from the depths of her stomach to her chest to her neck and she needs to get the fuck out before she implodes. 

“Of course. Rest up, okay?”

“Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow, thank you.” And Eve’s making a bee line for the exit, feeling relief as the sharp, freezing fresh air of the outdoors fills her lungs, helping to cool down the burning inside of her. It’s Autumn in London and she isn’t wearing a jacket, but she’d happily stand out here all day if it meant cooling herself down. 

When she’s finally sat in her car, head on the wheel, breathing deeply and attempting to settle her racing thoughts before turning the engine on, she’s thinking of what her next move can be. 

And maybe it’s an overreaction. Seeing your intern’s nudes isn’t a good enough reason to blow off work and consider a new job search and ditch all responsibilities. Except, it’s different when Eve’s had her hands down her pants hundreds of times while watching Villanelle. She’s came over and over to videos of Villanelle having sex and touching herself and dirty talking. She’s requested positions and themes and felt the butterflies whenever Villanelle would read out her comments and directly interact with her. She’s spent unspeakable amounts of money tipping this girl and buying items from her wishlist, everything from panties and toys to mundane, everyday shit that she can get genuine non-sexual use from. (Kitchen spoons. Eve has bought her fucking kitchen spoons before.) It’s a little deeper than a one night stand or nude scandal, so no it’s not an overreaction. And maybe becoming a full blown recluse wouldn’t be so bad. 

Of all people, of all places, of all jobs, of all departments, why the fuck did they have to meet like this?

\- - -

It’s 9pm and Eve’s watching Villanelle’s show for no reason other than to wallow in her disbelief. It’s for closure. She’ll unsubscribe soon - just has to be sure this is real and she didn’t make the whole thing up. 

“So, I started my new job today,” Villanelle starts, idly playing with her nipples as she waits for more viewers to join the stream. “Hopefully I can afford to buy another 4K camera soon.”

“My PayPal is linked on my account if anyone wants to surprise me.” And she wiggles her butt at that, giggling as she reacts to and reads out some comments of _pretty girl_ and _wish you worked with me_ and _take panties off._

Eve shouldn’t know that Villanelle broke her last 4K camera by clumsily knocking it over while stripping during a show. She shouldn’t know the exact shape of the bruise she got on her lower arm from this incident. She shouldn’t notice the minuscule difference between her old camera quality and her new temporary quality. She definitely shouldn’t donate any money to her PayPal. 

And if she does, it’s for closure. 

\- - -

A long, sleepless night and multiple panic attacks later, Eve finds herself back at work the next day, earlier than normal and more worked up than normal. 

If she keeps her head down today, maybe she can forget. 

Paperwork is piled high on her desk after her stress-induced early leave yesterday. Truthfully, she’s never welcomed a heap of work more, thankful for the distraction. It’s also a pretty good excuse to get to the office early, able to work more efficiently without the distracting chatter and shrill of phone lines. The earlier she shows up, the earlier she can leave. The earlier she can leave, the less time she has to see Oksana. 

There’s thirty minutes before anyone in the department is scheduled to arrive, so Eve can wallow in the peace a little longer. She’s definitely not thinking about Villanelle. She spent enough of last night thinking about Villanelle. She spent enough of the last year thinking about Villanelle. (And when her supplier report requires her to write the word ‘vilipend’, she definitely doesn’t need to reach for the Wite-Out after a completely inexplainable spelling mistake.)

Because nothing prepares you for meeting a stranger your head has convinced you is your girlfriend. In theory, Eve should know everything about her and feel comfortable around her after all the time she’s indirectly spent with her, but Villanelle is a stranger. Oksana is a stranger. She knows far too much and thinks about her far too much for a stranger and it’s weird. Everything in Eve wants to feel safe and normal around Oksana because that’s _her girl_ but she’s also a stranger. Oksana probably doesn’t remember her name. Eve’s just her boss. 

The sharp, unexpected ringing of Eve’s desk telephone rips her from her thoughts and she dreads whatever the receptionist could want this early. If it’s not an offer of a breakfast sandwich or a day off, she’s not interested. 

“Hey, Eve. One of the interns is here a little early, can you unlock the main office door for her please?”

The panic’s back. Her. There’s only one female intern. 

“Sure. I’ll let her in.”

Of course. Of course on the one occasion Eve decides to show up early, so does the girl she’s trying to forget. Is she lost? Did she not read the schedule? Can’t she just sit in her car? In her twenty-five years of managing and supervising, Eve has never, ever felt such desire for one of her employees to turn up late. Even better yet, to not turn up at all. Eve reluctantly presses the ‘Release Door’ button next to the door frame, the door that only gets opened during business hours and is therefore locked any other time, shakily breathing as she anticipates what’s about to happen. 

That’s the thing, though. Nothing’s about to happen. Oksana has no idea who Eve is, only knowing her as the weird, awkward boss lady who can’t even look her in the eye. Two things in life are irretrievable: time and first impressions. Eve’s melodramatic first impression isn’t helping her case, there’s no do-over from that. Oksana thinks she’s weird. Or even more realistically, doesn’t think anything of her at all. 

The blonde head of hair is the first thing Eve’s eyes are attracted to as the elevator door slowly opens outside of the office doors. Eve’s spent plenty of time wishing her hands were innocently running through it and braiding it and pulling it harshly from the roots as she-

“Hi, Eve.” She’s smiling brightly, holding out her hand for Eve to shake once again as though they’re meeting for the first time again. Of course, a five minute introduction before Eve stormed off in a frenzy might not count after all. She’s dressed in another suit, this time with a regular t-shirt instead of a collar shirt like yesterday and Eve still can’t get over how tall she is. 

“Hi...Oksana, is it?” As though Eve hasn’t spent the last 22 hours repeating the girl’s name in her head, searching up her name on Facebook and cursing the fact she never paid enough attention to her last name, scouring Villanelle’s social media sites for any mention of her real name to unsurprisingly no avail. Play it cool, Eve. “You’re eager.”

“Thanks for letting me come-” Eve’s sure she’s heard that very sentence so many times in Villanelle’s sultry Slavic intonation as she’s floating through the post-orgasmic clouds after a particularly rewarding camshow, swooning at all the sweet _such a good girl_ and _best model on this site_ comments, her brain automatically turning horny messages into dollar signs. “-in here this early. I figured I’d show up earlier to get a good parking space, I noticed you guys don’t have a big parking lot.”

“Yeah, I’ve definitely seen a lot bigger.” That one sounded less weird in Eve’s head. 

“I didn’t want to try force myself in somewhere tight. My car’s pretty big.” Oksana shrugs, looking from the window to the floor to the ceiling, probably desperate to find some other topic of conversation, probably even desperate to get away from Eve. She inwardly wonders if maybe Oksana notices the unnecessary tension and weird innuendos too, but maybe it’s best not to dwell on it too much. If anything potentially gave Eve away, it was yesterday’s ego death meets meltdown meets panic attack. If Oksana already knows, she already knows. 

It would almost be funny if the lump in Eve’s throat and pit in her stomach weren’t working together to swallow her whole. It feels wrong to even be in Villanelle’s presence like this, as though she should be paying for the honour. One comment on her stream costs $1 with a maximum of 100 characters. Mentally, Eve’s trying to count up what she owes Villanelle for this very conversation. But this isn’t Villanelle, it’s Oksana and Eve’s going to have to learn to seperate the two sooner rather than later if she wants to stay in this job. 

“Can I just sit anywhere?” Oksana asks, looking around at the vast room with easily a hundred desks and only one other person. 

“Yeah, wherever you want.” 

There’s a silence. And it’s making Eve want to keel over with awkwardness. 

“So you did marketing for a fashion brand before here? What was that like?” If she can make as boring a conversation as possible, like mind-numbingly boring, maybe Oksana will stop talking to her or stop interesting her or something. Humanise her, hopefully. The smartest thing to do might be to ignore the girl all together, but somewhere deep, deep down in Eve’s brain, she wants to get to know Oksana for real. She’ll never outwardly show that though, and so awkward pleasantries will have to do. 

If Eve has to make small talk about the weather for the duration of their professional careers together, then so be it. 

“Oh, yeah. It was really good, it was a lot of external communication planning and events work. Really good connections and references, too. It was so fun, I could’ve stayed there forever but when I saw this internship, I knew I had to leave.” 

“Why’d you have to leave?”

“I go wherever the money is.” Oksana smiles playfully, like she’s passing it off as a joke. 

Eve knows it’s not. It’s evident that Villanelle must have a fair amount of money in her bank, getting anywhere from $500 to upwards of $1000 per show every other day through tips alone, not to mention her monthly camshow membership fees, her monthly video platform membership fees, her Paypal, ko-fi and Venmo accounts and her ever-growing Amazon wishlists. Villanelle’s only hard limit when it comes to custom videos is raceplay, with pretty much anything else being fair game so long as the buyer has the budget to pay for it. The weirder the kink, the higher the fee. Eve thinks back to the custom video Villanelle once made pretending to be some guy’s biological sister, using his real sister’s name and all, begging to be knocked up with his inbred baby. There’s videos of her eating mountains of food while fully clothed and not acknowledging the camera at all, playing into some customers’ fucked up fantasies of peeping on her without her knowledge. She’s posted countless videos of herself peeing per request of rich customers, standing in the bathtub, timing herself for as long as she can hold it until she physically can’t anymore. She’s posted videos of her squashing fruit with her stilettos until they’re nothing but piles of seeds and pulp on the ground, guys getting off on the thought of being crushed and destroyed by her. She’s posted videos where she pretends not to consent, acting as though someone else is behind the camera, begging them to stop filming while she touches herself. Ask (and open your wallet) and you shall receive. 

“So this kind of work is all new to you, I guess? We’ll have you guys working on big data projects and assisting the financial advisors at first, none of the fun events stuff. You’ll be alright with that?”

“It’s not that new to me. I have tons of experience in similar positions,” _Fuck._ “I’m really flexible, too. I can fill any opening and I take direction really well.” _Fuck._ “So you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been told I’m very good at what I do.” _Fuck._

There’s a tangible silence after that. It’s not particularly awkward on anyone’s part, just quiet and still. They’re strangers after all. As much as Eve’s brain wants to think she knows the ins and outs of Oksana, she only knows her as an online persona, she doesn’t actually know the first thing about _her._ They’ve barely even spoken to each other beyond friendly pleasantries and small talk, so of course there’s a silence. It’s fine. Expected, even. 

Oksana’s setting her probably unspeakably expensive Prada tote bag up on a desk she’s claimed as her own for the day. It’s close enough to talk to Eve if she wants to, but not close enough to infringe on her personal bubble, which when it comes to Oksana, should ideally be a mile wide radius. When she takes a seat on her revolving desk chair (properly adjusting it to protect from RSI and maintain her good posture, a classic straight-out-of-uni move, contrasting the rest of the office who will straddle their chairs like horses or lean all the way back with their leg up over the arm rest if it means they’re comfortable.) Phone in hand, she types something out at a hundred miles an hour, smiling down unashamedly at her screen. Eve can’t help but wonder if she’s texting her boyfriend or girlfriend or if it’s some sugar daddy paypig offering to buy her a new iPhone 12. Maybe she’s sexting a customer, sending age-old nudes and pretending they were taken right now. Or she could be texting her parents. Head out of the gutter, Eve. 

“I’m sure you’ll fit right in here, then.” Eve tells her with a forced smile. 

Just as Eve’s ready to attempt to forget about Oksana’s existence for a while and get sucked back into her paperwork and challenging team leader reports, her phone vibrates with an email at the exact time Oksana places her own phone down. It’ll surely be mass correspondence from one of her superiors, or a member of her staff requesting a sick day or a junk email from some restaurant she ate at three years ago reporting on their menu changes. There’s no way that timing was anything other than a coincidence. If Eve’s head can’t let Villanelle go, she’ll never be able to act normal around Oksana. But surely enough, she’s met with an email from Villanelle’s membership mailing list. Her email format is always so crisp and tasteful, with a professionally graphic designed header and complimentary background colours along with thumbnails to her recent videos along the bottom. There’s a thumbnail of her bent over her bed, ass clad in black satin Brazilians contrasting against her milky skin. Another thumbnail shows her naked torso while showering, a sponge in one hand and one of her soapy tits in the other, hair wavy from the spray of water. The final thumbnail shows her head between another girl’s legs, likely one of her fellow camgirl friends she often meets up with to “produce content” (aka. fuck each other and film it.) She’s looking up at the camera with her big wide eyes and Eve swears she sees the hint of a cocky smile as Villanelle eats the girl out. 

_thank u all so much for 3000 subs! i’m taking early requests for tonight’s show to make it extra special for u guys as a thank u!! as always my paypal, venmo, amazon and ko-fi are linked if anyone wants to congratulate me!! i also attached an exclusive video to this email for you guys to check out. see you tonight! -Vx_

The blush rising to Eve’s cheeks and the way she not-so-subtley looks over to Oksana the second she reads it almost gives her away. It doesn’t though, because Oksana is oblivious, putting her phone down and going back to raking in her handbag for something as if she didn’t just email out a porn video to 3000 real-life people who spend real-life money every month to see her naked. Of all the free porn in the world, these men and women, Eve included, all fork out actual money to see Villanelle instead. Come to think of it, it must be an insane ego boost for Oksana, who always appears to be devilishly confident in objectively nerve-racking situations. It’s almost admirable, to the point that Eve wonders why she even bothers to show up to an office job when she could do this modelling thing full time. 

That’s what Eve’ll call this from now. Modelling. Villanelle is just a model she appreciates. It’s no big deal. 

Oksana’s smooth-as-butter voice cuts through the thick silence of their office like a knife, still just the two of them in there, Eve attempting to work independently and Oksana fidgeting around to pass time until the other interns show up. “Do you want anything from the coffee machine?”

“Uh... no thanks. Thank you.” Eve manages to get out somehow without her voice wavering. Villanelle’s fucking email is still clear as day displayed on her phone screen and the speed in which Eve hits the lock button and throws it on the desk would be enough to give her away all together if Oksana was paying enough attention. “When you start I’ll show you how to work some of the programmes we use here. I’ll give you some easy-ish work for now until you’re confident.”

“Sure, sounds good.” Oksana smiles, cat printed coffee mug in hand, sauntering towards the coffee machine just 10 feet away from Eve’s desk. It’s so, so wrong but so, so natural for Eve to be drawn into the sway of Oksana’s hips and the way her tailored pants fit so nicely around her small, rounded ass. She is Villanelle, after all. The object of Eve’s desires for the past year, the girl she’s fantasised about, got off to hundreds of times, even dreamed about before. It’s not surprising that every little movement Oksana makes has Eve swooning. Whether its reaching up on her tippy toes to grab a latte pod from the very back of the rack, to inspecting the questionable cleanliness of the office teaspoons before adding some sugar in her cup, to the mini celebration she does for herself as she aims the empty coffee pod into the trash bag and lands it in on her first try. 

It’s taking every ounce of self control Eve has, but she’s sure she’s looking at Oksana calmly for the first time since they met. There’s less nausea in her stomach, less bloodshot in her eyes and less falter in her lungs. This is fine. 

Everything is fine. 

“I think I’ll enjoy working here.” Oksana remarks, possibly just to herself, and Eve smiles in response nonetheless. 

But her next comment fucking finishes Eve off, rips her up and blasts her body parts through a shredder, throws them on the ground and allows the wind to blow every last piece of her into the void:

“I look forward to working under you, Eve.”

And everything is evidently not fine.

\- - -

The rest of Eve’s marketing department employees gradually filter into the office one by one as the beginning of the day nears, giving Eve a comfortable background noise to distract her from Oksana’s choking, all-consuming omnipresence. Having sent Oksana off to her desk with some basic yet long-winded database input work, the relentless niggle in Eve’s brain can be subdued for a while. The less questions Oksana has to ask her, the better. The quicker she can finish all her tasks, the better. 

There’s one thing that isn’t making matters easy for Eve and that’s the fact that Oksana can effortlessly converse with anyone about anything and Eve’s being subjected to hearing her bloviate non-stop to coworkers who were strangers to her just thirty minutes ago. Currently, she’s telling Jessica that she deserves better than her emotionally distant boyfriend, and excitedly asking Kate about the details of her upcoming honeymoon. Of course, hearing Oksana’s voice no matter the context sets off the butterflies cocooning in Eve’s stomach, but perhaps hearing her talk about mundane stuff can help Eve’s brain to associate it with a work colleague. Oksana’s just a work colleague. A loud, talkative, distracting work colleague. 

And as Eve’s attempting to make a start on the interns’ development plans, she can’t even hear herself think over the sound of Oksana’s soft giggles and infallible advice and sweet little conversation topics. Eve’s never been one to care about her employees talking or texting or having fun on the job. As long as every piece of work that needs to be done gets done, she doesn’t care how they get there. Her brain seems to specifically filter out every single voice in the room, leaving only Oksana’s in the silence. She could be whispering and it’d still be deafening to Eve. 

Part of Eve is just surprised that Villanelle is even a real person. For all intents and purposes, she never has been. The thought of ever bumping into her or being in the same room as her or even being in the same country as her had never, ever crossed Eve’s mind. If there’s no chance in hell of ever meeting someone, then what’s the use in viewing them as real? Villanelle previously existed solely on Eve’s laptop screen and on her Twitter timeline and in her saved documents files, but now she’s three feet away, playing with her hair, oblivious to Eve’s inner turmoil. 

“Oksana, David, Jacob, can you guys save your progress and come down here?” Eve smiles, attempting to keep her voice as friendly and welcoming as possible despite the unbearable panic rising in her throat at the thought of addressing Oksana again. 

There’s three empty desks right next to Eve’s, so she motions them to sit there while they work on some more complex work so that she can monitor them. Monitor and take notes. That’s all Eve has to do for now. 

But Oksana keeps fucking talking. Making idle conversation with the other interns, commenting on Eve’s instructions as she guides them through the systems, asking so many questions. Of course, it’s a good quality to have as a new employee, to be comfortable asking questions like she is. 

Normally, Eve would enjoy training an enthusiastic, confident intern, but this would be a hell of a lot less difficult if Oksana’s questions and comments weren’t sending Eve deep into flashbacks of past camshows. 

“Where do you want me?”

_It’s a regular customer’s birthday, and he’s paid unspeakable amounts of money to have free reign of whatever he wants Villanelle to do for the next hour. This one man easily drops upwards of $2000 on her each month, so it’s not too surprising that he’d pay her insanely high private show fee for a special occasion. Evidently, some guys get off on sending pretty girls half their paycheque for next to nothing in return and Villanelle seems to be the ultimate object of this guy’s affections. Always referring to Villanelle as his little puppy, she leans into it willingly, after all it’ll earn her more money in the long run if she goes along with whatever the rich guy presents to her. She’s wearing a puppy ear headband and matching tail plug (presumably gifted by said customer.) “Where do you want me?” Villanelle asks in her usual promiscuous tone, the chat exclusively open to this one man alone. Hundreds are watching, but only he can talk to her. “Hands and knees? Of course.” she smiles as she reads out his comment, happily obliging and wiggling her butt as she waits for his next command._

“Am I doing this right?”

_One of Villanelle’s many suction cup dildos is stuck to the wall adjacent to her bed, surrounded by an abundance of stuffed animals that don’t normally sit there, but she brings them out for shows like this. Shows where she’s playing up her inexperience. The camera is moved from it’s normal position so that the audience can see her dainty little side profile, tied-up hair flowing down her back, naked save for knee high stockings and garters. Slowly, she begins swirling her delicate tongue around the tip of the dildo, grasping the base with one hand and playing with her nipple with the other. She’s portraying a faux innocence, acting as though she hasn’t deepthroated this very dildo multiple times on cam in the past month alone. “Am I doing this right, Daddy?” Every move is nervous and tentative as she maintains contact with the camera with her big, blown out eyes, silently revelling in the steady flow of tips her performance is receiving._

“I need some help.”

_Every so often, Villanelle hosts women-only shows that men can only watch when they’re archived, not while they’re live. Women are less likely to freeload, so what she lacks in her core male audience, she makes up for in generous tips and meaningful comments. She’s on her back, white t-shirt still on but lifted up to expose her tits, legs spread and two fingers rubbing gentle circles over her clit. The ring light behind the camera makes her literally glisten and she looks so, so soft like this, idly biting the fingers on her left hand as she works herself up with her right. When her other hand drops down to her entrance, she scrunches her nose up, slipping two fingers into herself all too easily and huffing with dissatisfaction. “I need some help, Mommy. My fingers are too small, need yours.” she whines, sticking out her bottom lip and speeding up the rhythm on her clit. And the comment box is all of a sudden flooded with soft, almost maternal messages from various older women in the audience, encouraging her to keep going and stop whining and calling her a good girl and telling her they’d look after her if they were with her. Eve can always tell, even through the pixels of her laptop screen, that Villanelle prefers shows like these. The response she has to women is visibly so different to that of men and there’s never any moments where Eve has to wonder how much she’s faking. After she comes, the audience don’t push her to go again straight away like the male audience always do, instead listening to her talk about whatever topic she wants until she’s a little less sensitive. Truthfully, Eve prefers it like this, too, likes to see Villanelle treated with the respect she deserves._

If by some sort of miracle, Eve manages to get these interns through their training without quitting her job and fleeing the country, it’ll be the biggest achievement of her professional career thus far. Bigger than when she graduated college with the best grade in her entire class, bigger than when she got promoted after only three months with the company, bigger than when she was flown all-expenses-paid to Dubai for a month to train the new helpdesk employees, bigger than when her salary finally tipped into three figures. 

The realisation hits that everything she’s ever worked for is in jeopardy because of some random camgirl half her age who’s just trying to do her job. Oksana has done nothing wrong at all but Eve can’t help but feel angry with her. Or maybe she’s angry at the universe. Someone somewhere planned this and if Eve hadn’t clicked on her link all those months ago she wouldn’t be in this situation. It’d be another calm, boring work day with these average, uninspiring interns and she wouldn’t have the headaches or the paranoia of being discovered or the sharp pains in her chest. 

All Eve can do now is wait. Wait for Oksana to quit or wait for Oksana to get fired or wait for a department shift or wait for a better job opportunity to arise. 

Most importantly, wait until she’s ready to forget about Villanelle for good. 

\- - -

It’s 8pm on Friday and this is the last time Eve will ever watch one of Villanelle’s shows. Like, the official last time. She’ll watch for 5 more minutes — then it’ll all be over. 

“You guys need to start going easy on me.” Villanelle whines as she slowly rides her pillow, the audience-controlled vibrator buzzing relentlessly inside of her. 

Someone just paid $250 for Villanelle to keep herself from coming for at least 10 minutes, all while continuing to edge herself just as she has been for the previous 20 minutes. She’s getting more wrecked by the second, but that was evidently the intention of the majority of these tippers, wanting to see her get as debauched as possible in as little time as possible. 

It also helps that Villanelle knows exactly how to work her audience, knows the exact faces to pull and noises to make to garner the most money from each individual audience member. 

It’s almost an art form, the way she changes her shows every day to fit around the specific audience members watching that day. When her analytics show an audience of mainly older men, she’ll dress in a short skirt and knee high socks and an unbuttoned school shirt. She’ll play up her innocent facade, flutter her lashes and pretend to get off on a realistic dildo jackhammering into her cervix with no external stimulation. On days where her viewership is mainly older women, she’ll take it slow and tease herself, dropping all her theatrics and bringing the atmosphere of the show down until it’s impossibly intimate. Enya playing softly in the background, dim lights that work with the candlelight to highlight the peaks of her body, incense steam blowing into the frame — the whole experience. Women tend to leave more insightful, albeit equally horny, comments, paragraphs praising specific parts of her body and worshipping her like she personally turned water to wine, contrasting the thoughtless _mmmm_ and _show tits_ comments from men. When it’s an audience of impressionable younger women, she’ll bring out her new brand-deal sex toys and unbox and try them out on camera, reviewing them as she goes to hopefully make sales. An affiliate link for all the toys she uses sits prominently in her cam bio next to her Paypal and Venmo and ko-fi links, garnering her yet another source of income when she can effectively convince people to buy them. Villanelle’s quite the salesperson, evidently.

Her thighs are visibly twitching and her glazed eyes are struggling to focus on the camera lens at this point. “Please, guys, it’s $251 if anyone wants to let me come now. Please, I want it so bad. Can’t wait 10 minutes.”

Villanelle’s eyes light up as another large tip rolls through, manifesting itself as an extra long and extra powerful vibration directly against her g-spot that leaves her panting for it’s entire duration. However, the bliss immediately falters as soon as she reads it’s another $250 with the message, _make that 20 minutes._

And maybe Eve can watch for 20 more minutes — then it’ll all be over. 

\- - -


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think theres a mamma mia quote in here

Every day it becomes more and more apparent to Eve that Oksana’s really fucking good at her job. Her office job, that is. 

It’s only a week into her internship and stakeholders are already effortlessly charmed by her ineffable manner, even if only encountered through strictly formatted emails and brief phone calls. Oksana personally volunteers to help out with the company’s social media platforms, bringing them from outdated mediocrity to engaging and wide-reaching excellence, with social media and website branding evidently nothing new to her. (Eve won’t let on that she knows that.) Her unending creativity combined with an extraordinary self confidence make for interesting ideas and opinions in meetings that can’t go unheard. Eve might even go as far to say Oksana reminds her of herself as a fresh graduate, desperate to be taken seriously in an industry so tightly packed, yielding an unshakeable sense of being superior to her equals. In the old days, they’d call her bossy. Nowadays, strong-willed is the preferred term.

In a way, it’s somewhat of a blessing. Oksana doesn’t ask Eve for help anymore, flying through all her tasks with an effortless ease and picking up the slack of others without being instructed to. She’ll help out the other newbies and even give tips to coworkers three years her precedent. The higher-ups love her, already asking for her out-of-the-box opinions on future projects and praising her in the managers-only operations emails. It reflects well on Eve, too, who’s clearly running her department and training program well if Oksana is already so capable so early. 

However, on the flip-side, with every cocky, patronising piece of correspondence Eve recieves from Oksana, she wants to kick her out of her team even more than she thought imaginable. Oksana could seriously “As per my last email...” and “Friendly Reminder :)” Eve to death, to the point that anyone CC’d in their emails without context probably wouldn’t be able to discern boss from intern. She’s bossy and demanding and knows how to get what she wants from whoever she wants. 

And it’s fine. Eve has a soft spot for her and there’s nothing she can do about it, despite how much she desperately wants to hate the girl, she can’t. When Oksana’s raking through every filing cabinet in the office to find the printer paper, Eve’ll point out the correct place for her. When Eve’s making a lunch trip across the street to Starbucks, she’ll take Oksana’s order. It’s never really much more than that though, with Eve’s never-ending embarrassment still just as strong whenever she’s around Oksana. They’re yet to cross into friends territory, but they’ll tolerate each other as colleagues. 

“Hey, can I borrow your pillow to sit on?” Eve hears Oksana asks whatever girl is sat next to her at her desk, keeping her voice low like it’s a drug deal. Eve seems to have supersonic hearing when it comes to snooping on Oksana’s conversations, though, having her accent and inflections and tones engraved in her mind. It’s like when you know all the lyrics to a song — even if it’s played at a low volume, you can still make out the words because you already know them. “My ass feels like I’m sitting on a fire.”

“Yeah, sure.” the girl nods, eyebrow raised in amusement. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“I was playing on a trampoline with my nephew and I bounced off.” Oksana’s face is burning red as the girls sitting around her start to tease her for being clumsy, believing her effortlessly smooth lie without a doubt. She just laughs along with them and Eve can’t help but be amazed at her on-the-ball lying skills.

Eve won’t let it slip that she spent an hour watching Villanelle spank herself with riding crops, paddles and whips last night, a spank for every $5 she received until she was visibly bruised and completely pushed to her limit, crying by the end of it. 

It’s also probably best to not slip that five of those spanks were funded out of Eve’s own pocket. Or maybe it was six, who’s counting?

“Are you coming to my housewarming party tonight, Oksana?” Eve hears the girl ask her. And for the first time she recognises the less important voice on the flipside of Oksana’s conversation as belonging to Elena. Eve’s best friend, the entire main office’s best friend, and now evidently Oksana’s best friend. 

It’s not surprising. She’s heard Elena gush non-stop about how cool and smart and nice Oksana is. Entire lunch breaks have been spent with Elena telling Eve she should get to know Oksana some more so they could all get lunch together, insists they have a very similar sense of humour and would get along great. Eve always maintains that she does like Oksana and Elena complains that no, she hasn’t made enough effort with her. 

And for some reason it never occurred to Eve — not when she double pinky promised Elena she’d come to her party, not when she hunted through her abandoned swimwear drawer to find a semi acceptable bikini to wear in the pool, not when she bought her pre-mixed cocktail cans on the way home from work in preparation — that Oksana might be there too. A house party in a huge four-bedroom detached house with a pool and jacuzzi and space for everyone in the office, and it never occurred to Eve that Oksana might be there too. Oksana, who effortlessly makes friends with everyone she meets and Elena who desperately wants as many people to attend her party as possible. So maybe there’s a problem here. 

“Of course!” Oksana chirps, voice deafeningly resonant in Eve’s ears despite her being twenty feet away from Eve’s own desk. “I’ve been deciding between two bikinis — either red or black.”

“Wear the sluttiest one.” Elena insists. “I’m inviting the sexy call centre boys.”

“Black one it is, then.” Oksana decides, and Eve almost rolls her eyes. As if she couldn’t get any man she wanted, slutty bikini or no slutty bikini. Or maybe Eve just has a warped sense of admiration for her and it’s all in her head. 

Eve silently prays that Oksana changes her mind last minute. Specifically, prays that she changes her mind to wear the less slutty bikini. Broadly, prays that she changes her mind about coming all together. Either would work fine. 

\- - -

Eve’s watching Villanelle again. And it’s not cheating this time because she’s watching a video, not a show. No promises were made to stop watching the videos. 

One step at a time, and all that. 

It’s Villanelle and two other girls in what looks to be a semi lit hotel room, initially giggling and flirting before seamlessly transitioning into stripping and kissing and touching as they’ve practised together so many times before. Eve immediately recognises the girls as two of Villanelle’s fellow creator friends that she hooks up with a lot — girls she’s fantasised about being so many times in the past and wondered if they knew just how lucky they are. 

After a brief minute of kissing, the girls push a now naked Villanelle down on the bed and immediately get to eating her out simultaneously, almost competitively, occasionally stopping their motions on either side of her clit to briefly make out with one another instead. Villanelle’s whines and giggles and ‘Fuck’s from behind the iPhone camera are sending jolts of electricity through Eve, who’s desperately trying to will her own hands to stay where she can see them. If she can guarantee one thing, it’s that she’s never going to touch herself watching her employee ever again. 

The camera shifts as it’s passed to one of the girls, and Villanelle’s flipping over so she’s face down, ass up and turning around to smile at her friends. There’s more idle chatter and giggling as one girl pulls a strap-on harness up over her thighs and the other delivers lazy spanks to Villanelle’s ass while they wait. It’s extremely clear that this is a group of friends who do this for a living, fucking each other for fun. There’s no attempt to fake any sort of passion or intimacy, just three girls fucking around and enjoying themselves with nothing else to it. 

“Can we order pizza after this?” Villanelle asks as her friend playfully spanks and squeezes her ass, commenting on how bouncy it is. “I’ll Tweet my Venmo and a paypig can buy it for us.”

Villanelle’s train of thought is interrupted as soon as her friend gets positioned behind her with the strap-on, immediately fucking her at a fast pace, drawing short, loud moans out of Villanelle that send a buzz straight to Eve’s clit. 

And fuck it, guarantee’s out the window and Eve’s undoing the button and zip on her pants and her hand’s down there before she can halt it. Normally while watching Villanelle, she’d take her time, pace herself so she could last the duration of the stream and finish alongside her girl. This, however, is nothing but a means to an end. The quicker Eve can get herself off, the quicker she can turn the video off. The quicker she can stop the sounds of Villanelle’s angelic noises resonating through her earphones, the quicker she can forget about this all together and work on her justifications. 

So Eve skips the video forward a couple of minutes in the hopes that maybe the attention will shift onto Villanelle’s friends instead. Then it’d just be regular porn, right? There’s no moral questionability in getting off to regular porn. The other girls are pretty, too, and maybe watching one of them get railed might get her off just as fast as watching Villanelle would. And even if Villanelle’s the one doing the railing, maybe Eve can make a conscious effort to pretend she’s not. 

Of course Eve doesn’t get so lucky though, because when does she ever? Instead, when she skips ahead she’s greeted with both girls now strapping Villanelle - one in each hole, moving in sync with one another and leaving her desperately gripping the messed up bedsheets. Consciously or subconsciously, Eve’s touches on her own clit increase in speed and her thoughts are once again consumed by Villanelle just as they always are when she does this. Villanelle’s noises and facial expressions and body twitches just always seem to _do it_ for Eve in ways she can’t understand and she can’t see that ever changing, despite how much she knows it has to. 

When Villanelle lowers one of her hands to rub at her own clit, eliciting louder moans from herself, Eve’s completely done for. And although she said she wouldn’t do it, she’s holding off her own climax until Villanelle reaches hers. It’s not even live, there’s nothing intimate or personal or exclusive about this. Eve’s watching a pre-recorded video most likely filmed weeks ago and yet she still can’t shake the need to orgasm along with Villanelle. For camshows, it’s somewhat justified — watching Villanelle in real time, and all — but Eve’s edging herself to a pre-recorded video that she could easily turn off and it feels like a step too far. 

The end comes when Eve identifies the telltale signs of Villanelle’s orgasm. She can tell effortlessly from real and fake by now. Real orgasms leave Villanelle red in the face, chest heaving, overly sensitive and breathing heavily. Her fake orgasms normally come from penetration alone, where she’s exaggerating her moans and flailing around and ready to go again straight after. Villanelle’s by no means a bad actor though, and she often had Eve fooled for months, but eventually Eve became arguably more in tune with Villanelle’s body than she is with her own. Eve knows exactly what she likes and at what pace and with how much pressure, knows exactly what she hates and what hurts her and what’s too much for her. Eve always said it’d go down well if she ever got to sleep with Villanelle for real. But she can’t so it won’t. 

Eve comes alongside her girl, not overly intensely but nothing too dissatisfying, her own deep breathing mirroring Villanelle’s. As the girls harshly pull out of Villanelle, Eve can’t help but imagine that she’s the one gently pulling out of her after making her come. Watching Villanelle’s friends be so rough with her afterwards, slapping her ass and giggling and throwing her clothes at her makes Eve’s blood boil. Villanelle doesn’t care one bit, immediately going back to laughing and joking and talking with her friends like they didn’t just double penetrate her, just another day on the job for them. Still, Eve can’t shake the feeling that Villanelle should be taken care of, always. If Eve were the one making her come, she’d take care of her afterwards and be gentle and let her come down at her own pace. Eve’d tell her she’s pretty, tell her she did a good job, wrap her up in a warm cuddle and keep soothing her even after her breathing evens. She’d never let Villanelle forget how perfect and special she is. 

It’s a common occurrence in Villanelle’s videos — men and women throwing her around like she weighs nothing, roughing her up, spitting on her face and leaving her with black tear stains running down her cheeks. Villanelle clearly loves it and makes no complaints, but when Eve wants nothing more than to look after her and be gentle with her, it feels like a slap in the face. These people are living out Eve’s unattainable fantasy and have no idea how lucky they are. 

There’s evidently no justifications and Eve takes special care to clear her browser history before attempting to get back on with life. 

There’s always tomorrow. One step at a time. 

\- - -

It starts in a bar. And Eve’s semi-sulking because who the fuck starts a housewarming party in a bar? “It’s the warmup,” is what Elena keeps insisting, but Eve can’t find it in herself to justify £5 per drink when they could just be drinking their own bottles back at Elena’s, but it’s whatever. 

There’s a weird mix of people, single moms to wine aunts to strict bosses to young interns from all departments, all taking up a whole suite in this niche Wild West themed bar. (And yes, Eve got talked into putting on one of the cowboy hats provided at the front door.) Evidently, not everyone who was invited actually showed up, but there’s enough people to just slightly tip things over the edge of overwhelming. 

Eve’s sitting with all the chatty young girls from her marketing team, babbling about their boyfriend dramas and attempting to give Elena interior design tips on how to decorate her rooms. (And no, their ideas of a grey, crushed velvet bed and white IKEA furniture and laminate marble countertops are not the height of interior design, but Eve doesn’t really care enough to offer her own ideas.) Notably, these girls are Oksana’s friends. While Oksana seems to be friends with everyone she talks to, these girls are her closest. They’re similar to her in age and maturity and Eve can’t exactly complain, seeing as Oksana picks up their slack a lot of the time when it comes to their work. Anything that gets the work done is appreciated, even if it’s Oksana’s overbearing need to take over from other people. 

And Eve’s fucking thinking about Oksana again. This should be a fun night out with friends away from work duties and daily stresses and she’s thinking about Oksana again. Eve’s wondering why she didn’t come even though she was definitely invited and what she’d be wearing if she was here and what’s her go-to drink and what’s she like when she’s drunk and it’s hard for Eve to think about anything else. 

“What about you, Eve?” A voice breaks her out of her own thoughts for a second, and when she looks up, it’s Elena’s. 

“Huh?” Good job not sounding distracted, Eve. Good job pretending to care about the conversation at hand, Eve. 

“Kate’s going to the bar for everyone. What do you want?”

“Oh, um...double vodka and lemonade, please.” Eve says, but maybe one drink won’t be enough to block Oksana out of her memory. She’ll drink twenty if that’s what it takes. “Actually, make it two.” 

Blackout seems the way to go tonight, and the full bottle of vodka in her handbag seems to agree with that sentiment. 

For the next hour, it’s all idle conversations and laughing at unnecessarily high levels and Eve pretending like she’s not internally miles away. Part of her thinks she almost _misses_ Oksana’s presence, despite how much it’d be suffocating her if she was here. Maybe Eve just likes the melodrama of it all. Maybe it’s just a schoolgirl crush that’ll go away on its own. 

When they’re all finally back at Elena’s, Eve’s practically the first one in the kitchen making herself a drink. Overly strong and almost painful to swallow, but she’s a little buzzed already so it’s nothing she can’t handle. Other office members and friends of Elena’s are steadily flowing in until there’s a positively packed house, and yet there’s still no sign of Oksana. Perhaps she’s sick and couldn’t make it, or she forgot to come, or she’s here but lost in a crowd somewhere. With the way Eve can identify even her tiniest of whispers, though, it’s unlikely. When Oksana’s around, there’s a full-blown energy shift. Well, it feels that way to Eve, anyway. So, no, she’s not here. 

And that means Eve can get on with the rest of her night, talking with existing friends and making new friends the drunker she gets, dancing to loud house music and 90s throwbacks and letting herself forget for a while. Forget work, forget stress, forget Oksana, forget Villanelle. 10pm becomes 11pm and 11pm becomes 12am and 12am becomes 1am and Eve’ll definitely be feeling this tomorrow. 

It’s not until Eve steps outside for a breather that she feels it — the full-blown energy shift. 

She’s not crazy. Eve always knows when Oksana’s near her by some kinetic force and although she can’t see her, she knows she can’t be far away. Or maybe she is crazy. Maybe Oksana’s chilling in her own house right now. Either way, there’s an energy shift. 

Eve scans the expanse of the garden, seeing nothing but groups of smokers and one girl who got too drunk she can’t stand anymore getting comforted by her friend. There’s a pool and a jacuzzi that Eve can’t believe Elena somehow managed to come by from the questionable real estate offerings in their town-

And holy fucking shit, there’s Oksana sitting alone in the jacuzzi with her head tipped back and eyes closed and Eve’s sure she’s seen her make that exact face while getting eaten out and if Eve wasn’t drunk, she’d be running far away from her but she is so she won’t. Oksana’s really just there — half naked and chilled — bikini only covering the places Eve’s seen hundreds of times before. There’s a deep purple hickey on her collarbone that Eve watched her friend give to her during the threesome video while six inches deep inside of her with a strapon and it’s a reminder that Oksana is Villanelle. They’re the same person. And Villanelle’s two feet away from her. There’s no way Eve can ignore her right now. 

“Oksana,” Eve says gently, making sure she’s not actually asleep before talking to her. When Oksana opens her eyes and smiles at her, her heart physically melts. “Hi.”

“Hi, Eve.”

The voice never fails to catch Eve off guard — the perfect balance between satin and liquid, soft and coarse, welcoming and threatening. She’s heard everything Villanelle’s ever said in that accent. Eve swears her moans and whines and even _breaths_ are accented. 

“Am I interrupting you?”

“Of course not. You coming in?” Oksana’s patting the edge of the jacuzzi and batting her pretty little lashes so how the fuck can Eve say no to her. 

“Sure, why not?”

There’s clearly a newfound confidence in drunken Eve that she wouldn’t have sober, because without much hesitation, she’s pulling the zipper of her dress down and discarding it somewhere on the artificial grass, leaving her only in a bikini that hadn’t previously left her drawers in over a year. And the way Oksana absentmindedly bites her bottom lip as Eve undresses is definitely unrelated. There’s no way it’s anything but Eve’s intoxicated, horny mind trying to turn this into something it’s not. Somewhere deep down though, there’s a mini Eve jumping up and down in excitement at the fact she just undressed in front of Villanelle for real, context irrelevant. 

“You having a good night?” Oksana asks her as Eve unsexily staggers into the jacuzzi, almost spilling her half-full drink in the process and causing Oksana to instinctively grab her arm to stop her from falling over. Eve just nods and smiles at her question though, head a little too buzzed to feel insecure like she normally would. She’s just happy. Happy to be in this girl’s presence for once. “Drunk?” Oksana asks again, to which Eve just nods again. 

“You look nice tonight.” Eve tells her. Her drunken mind is the devil on her left shoulder, gleefully celebrating the fact that she actually managed to compliment her instead of running away from her — possibly the only win of her week so far. Her sober mind is the angel on her right shoulder, all too aware that Oksana is practically naked, majority of her tits on show with her hair in a top knot and it’s maybe not the ideal situation to compliment someone you like for the first time. So she attempts to save it. “Like, your makeup looks nice.”

What else is she meant to say? Your personality really shines in that quarter coverage bikini top, Oksana. Your thoughts look stunning in that thong bikini bottom, Oksana. 

“Thanks. Yours looks nice, too. I like this bikini, it suits you.” And Oksana’s reaching out to touch the strap resting on her shoulder and she’s not even drinking so she can’t blame that. Eve wants to scream at how effortlessly confident Oksana is at all times, even when inappropriately touching her boss’ bra strap like it’s nothing. Of course, Eve won’t complain. Maybe if she wouldn’t be so hostile towards Oksana at work, she’d always be this bold and flirty to her. Most likely it’s just her drunken mind warping the situation. Maybe she’s not even with Oksana, instead sitting next to some old perv from the admin department. It wouldn’t be surprising, Oksana’s consumed her thoughts day and night for the last week and she keeps finding a way to relate everything back to her. But Eve can smell her sweet perfume and feel the softness of her skin on their brushing touches and there’s no way it’s her imagination. 

Normally, Eve’d be frantic, insecure of her body and posture and reactions and her overall _self_ while sitting so close to this girl, but now she’s just relaxed and enjoying the inherent sensuality of a weird bra strap stroking. It feels normal while being the most abnormal moment of Eve’s life. Her favourite model touching her softly below the neckline — it’s so fucking random. She hopes this moment never falls victim to her post-alcohol memory loss. 

“You weren’t at the bar, I never saw you get here. Have you been around the whole time?” Eve asks. “Or have you been meditating alone in the jacuzzi all night?”

“I was not meditating. It’s called relaxing, you should try it sometime. I don’t think you know how to.” Oksana’s kidding, but Eve can’t help but think that the only real way she knows how to relax is watching one of Villanelle’s camshows after work and spoiling her with money and gifts. It’s been the only real constant variable in her life for the past year and now there’s a hole in the bucket. It’s not exactly the most relaxing pastime anymore. So, no, she doesn’t know how to relax but no, she won’t admit to that. 

It’s clearly a hint to lighten up a little.

“So you don’t want your favourite boss to keep you company?”

“Of course I do. How can I resist the looming threat of offending you and getting fired?”

And maybe this could be nice. Relaxing and talking with the girl she likes, with the alcohol excuse a safety net if she crosses a line. Admittedly, Eve’d feel better if Oksana was also drinking alcohol instead of nursing a cup of water, but you win some you lose some. If Eve had a month to prepare for a one on one jacuzzi rendezvous with Villanelle, she’d nail it. She’d plan all the right things to say and questions to ask and moves to make, but this is all rushed and unexpected and Eve’s getting anxious on instict. 

So it’s back to the only thing she knows how to do with Oksana. Awkward, boring conversation. 

“So, tell me about yourself. Where are you from?” Eve asks. 

Ukraine. Kyiv, Ukraine, to be exact. She knows that one already. It’s plastered all over Villanelle’s cam page, Eve’s heard her read out Cyrillic comments and reply in her sexy Slavic drawl, crooning her native tongue in a tone too sultry for her own good. Some of her shows are completely in her native language and even if Eve can’t understand a word of them, she’ll listen for hours anyway. There’s no point asking the question, but if Eve’s going to pretend she knows nothing about this girl, she’d better get the basics out of the way. 

“Russia.” Oksana replies. And Eve is probably visibly taken aback by it. In fact, she knows judging by her own reaction and Oksana’s questioning eyebrow raise. 

“Are you sure?” Admittedly, it sounded way more subtle in her head but it makes Oksana giggle and she’d decidedly embarrass herself every moment for the rest of her life if it meant Oksana would giggle like this everytime. 

“Yes, I’m sure. I’m pretty confident I know where I’m from.”

“How old are you?” Eve continues. 22. That’s what’s on her profile. Eve literally watched her 22nd birthday stream in June which consisted of her smearing whipped cream and icing all over her stomach and thighs and ass, scooping up the mess with strawberries and thanking the audience for the birthday gifts and tips, reaching her goal of $2200 in one show alone. She regularly refers to herself as ‘barely legal,’ even. There’s no way she isn’t 22. 

“What is this, 20 Questions? I’m 27. I’d ask you too, but I respect that it’s rude to ask a lady her age.”

And fuck. Maybe Eve knows nothing about her at all. Maybe every single part of her online persona is fake and that’s definitely something Eve can live with. She can treat Villanelle as a character and Oksana as a coworker. They aren’t the same person. Except they are the same person and Eve can’t look at her fingers without having flashbacks to every little thing she’s seen them do and can’t look at her tits peeking out the top of her bikini without subconsciously knowing the exact placement of every hidden freckle decorating them. 

“Late to graduate college.” Eve remarks, taking another swig at her drink, poking a stick at any hope Oksana’ll give her a peek into her real life. Again, Eve can’t shake the feeling that she should be paying Villanelle for the honour. $1 per 100 characters. Maybe, subliminally, that’s why Eve normally finds herself quiet around Oksana, because she doesn’t feel deserving. On Villanelle’s socials, you have to pay money to even DM her or she’ll block you and charge an unblock fee. People don’t get to just talk to her like this. Eve has a once in a lifetime opportunity and she may be wasting it more and more with every drunken word that leaves her lips. 

“I had to stop half way through because I couldn’t afford tuition.” Oksana shrugs, swirling the water in her cup round in circles and looking up for Eve’s reaction. 

“You seem to have money now.” The words come out before Eve can stop them, but in all fairness the Balmain bikini and Prada handbag and Jacquemus blazer give her wealth away without any prior knowledge of her sex working habits. It’s not rude to comment on someone’s wealth if they flaunt it, right? Probably not. 

“I do.” 

“So you found a way?” Boundaries, Eve, boundaries. She obviously found a way, and Eve can’t help but think for a moment that Oksana might outright tell her. Hit her with a ‘Oh yeah, I finger myself in front of a webcam for three grand a week,’ to which Eve will reply ‘Wow. I never saw it in you. What a surprise. Good work.’ She’d want the world to take her under if that was the case. 

But it isn’t. Oksana just replies, “I did.” And they leave it at that. Eve doesn’t need an elaboration, Oksana doesn’t give her one. Just a semi-tense silence that only Eve can feel the suffocating grasp of. 

“So what brought you here to the UK?” Translation: Why the fuck are you here? Have you always lived here? How far away do you live? Does Villanelle live in my suburb? Could I have been sending panties and toys and kitchen spoons to my neighbour?

There’s no answer to that, just a gentle push on Eve’s shoulder and Oksana’s shaking her head in amusement. “What brought you here, Miss America? I can’t be the only one answering questions.”

And all of a sudden everything Eve could ever say seems boring. She’s not boring. She’s a success story. A young high school graduate who moved across the world on a whim and progressed upwards from nothing to a high ranking supervisor in a world renowned company, who got by in life alone with no trust fund or assistance. 

It’s nothing like fingering yourself in front of a webcam for three grand a week, though. 

“Been here since I was 20.” Eve shrugs. “I don’t remember, really. I hated the US so I think I was just happy to move literally anywhere else. I was only meant to be studying in England then moving back home straight after, but I got an internship here like you did and never left.”

“How long have you worked with the company?”

“Too long. Since I was fresh out of university at 23. It was basically a start-up back then so I grew up with it, seen all types of management and changes and upgrades and downgrades. I knew what I wanted when I was younger so I progressed really quickly. Got what I wanted because I asked for it. You remind me a lot of myself, actually.”

Oksana’s eyebrow quirks and Eve can see the beginning of a smirk rise to her lips. “Why? Because I’m bossy?”

Eve giggles and nods. “I prefer the term confident. Head-strong, even. You know what you want and you know how to get it.”

“Oh yeah? I like that. Normally people just call me a bitch.”

Eve’s admittedly never head anyone call her that. Behind Oksana’s back it’s all praise and admiration and fawning, the girl yielding an annoyingly undeniable charisma that Eve can’t bring herself to hate no matter how desperately she wants to. 

“Why did you come here?”

“Russia is huge and cold and I wanted out. Same thing as you, I guess. Wanted a change of scenery and better job prospects. I’ll see where the universe takes me from here. Maybe I’ll go back home eventually or maybe I’ll move to another country again.”

“You’re so carefree. I like it. You don’t answer to anyone.”

“I don’t want to answer to anyone other than myself.” Oksana shrugs. “Too complicated.”

“So no girlfriend in your life, then?” And Eve probably should’ve said boyfriend, but it’s out in the air now, floating circles around the space above their heads and wrapping tight around Eve’s throat. Oksana obviously isn’t fazed though, she never is. 

“What makes you think I like girls?” She’s just smiling in amusement, eyebrow raised in anticipation of Eve’s inevitable fumbling, explanatory words. 

Eve’s only real argument towards the Oksana-likes-girls cause is the way Villanelle acts on cam. Eve knows Villanelle well enough to pick up on her micro expressions and tone shifts and how fake her moaning seems from video to video, show to show. Despite having upwards of twenty videos solely involving sex with men, be it threesomes or throat fucks or femdoms, something in Eve can feel the shift in the way she acts compared to in her girl-on-girl videos. They’re softer and longer and not performative and look genuinely fun to film. Maybe it’s the inherent roughness that comes from sex with a man. Or maybe Eve’s completely wrong and she’s just insane. There’s no real evidence that Oksana isn’t just gay for pay, doing whatever makes the most money. Girl-on-girl videos are by far Villanelle’s biggest hit, partly due to her small, yet dedicated female fanbase but primarily due to her large and shamelessly fetishising male fanbase. It’s a no-brainer that she’d make more of those regardless of her own personal sexuality. 

“Takes one to know one.” is all Eve offers, silently bracing for the wreck of embarrassment when Oksana is inevitably straight, crushing all Eve’s hopes of ever being with her. Or being with Villanelle — she doesn’t know what she wants at this point. 

Deep inhale. 

“Well, in that case, you’re correct.”

Sharp exhale. 

One step closer to victory, or something. Victory’s still a billion steps away, but she will let herself have this one. 

“What can I say? I have a sixth sense.” Or she’s watched Villanelle with her tongue deep inside another girl, seen her riding another girl’s strap, seen her sitting on another girl’s face. But Eve’ll insist it was the sixth sense and be done with it. Oksana will never know any different. “Why aren’t you drinking?”

“Don’t like the way it makes my head feel. I hate losing control, scared to say anything I regret.”

“Scared ‘cause I’m your boss?”

“You’re not my real boss.” Oksana insists with a playful eyebrow raise. 

“No?” Maybe Eve’s not opposed to playing along. 

“Nope. You have a boss, too. So technically he’s my real boss.”

It doesn’t work like that and it has never worked like that, but Eve’ll agree to her questionable logic nonetheless. Oksana’s cute when she’s playful, inching forward and Eve swears she might move her hand to Eve’s thigh at any moment. She doesn’t though, and Eve’s glad because she’d be six feet under in an instant. 

“I _am_ your superior.” Eve needles, swallowing the small remainder of her drink in one go, trying not to grimace as all the settled alcohol at the bottom hits her tongue. “So that means you need to go grab me another drink, hm?”

“What about you?” Oksana asks. “Do you have a girlfriend? Wife?”

“Nope. There’s a recurring cast of friends with benefits I alternate between. No one I’d particularly like to settle down with, though. That ship has sailed for me, I guess. Any singles my age have kids and exes and soulmates and emotional baggage I’d have to deal with. It’s probably easier leaving all that out.”

“Then go for someone younger.” Oksana shrugs nonchalantly, taking the empty plastic cup from Eve’s hand and motioning towards the drinks table. “I like talking to you. You never seem like you want to talk to me at work.”

“I just don’t know you that well.” It’s half true. “But I like talking to you, too.”

She’s pulling herself out of the jacuzzi and it’s maybe the first time that Eve’s ever missed her presence. Normally, it’s a case of running and hiding from her and hoping that she doesn’t want to talk. Now, though, all she really wants to do is talk to Oksana. Talk about her childhood and her studies and her favourite foods and favourite places. She’s just interesting and different and charming and Eve would still be this intrigued even if she had no idea about Villanelle. Oksana’s also very nice to look at, which always helps.

It’s less than two minutes later when she returns again, Eve’s lipstick-stained cup in hand filled with some strong liquid that was once a Sangria at the start of the night, but has since turned into a jug of chopped fruit floating in straight ethanol. It burns and tastes like shit, but it’s giving Eve a confidence boost she could never complain about. 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” The pet name slips out and Eve’ll pretend it’s not a pet name she’s called Villanelle in the comment section of many late night livestreams. She’ll pretend she’s never felt the flurry in her stomach as Villanelle reads out or replies to one of her comments, no matter how mundane.

Because this isn’t Villanelle. Villanelle is a character who doesn’t exist and the quicker Eve can get to grips with that, the quicker she can move on with her life and forget about this whole ordeal and take a nice relaxing bath. 

As much as Eve wants to say ‘I missed you in the minute and a half you were gone,’ she doesn’t — because that would be objectively fucking weird. 

“Tell me something interesting about yourself.” Oksana’s requesting and Eve’s drawing blanks. 

She could tell Oksana about the threesome she once had with two guys in college, a forbidden memory that always seems to come to the surface when she’s drunk — but Villanelle has literally filmed herself being gangbanged by eight guys at the same, eventually being passed around like a doll for each of them to finish inside. She could tell Oksana she speaks two languages — but Villanelle’s frequent non-English shows suggest that wouldn’t impress her much. Maybe Oksana would be impressed that she can cook really well — but Villanelle’s posted regular SFW pictures and videos of recipes and food reviews on her Twitter account (guys mainly just tuning in to see the pictures of her sat on the kitchen counter wearing only an oversized t-shirt and licking cream off a wooden spoon) suggesting otherwise. It’s safe to guess that she can also cook. So there’s nothing Eve can think of. 

“There’s nothing interesting about me.” Eve wants to add a ‘compared to you.’ at the end of that statement. But she doesn’t. 

“I think you’re very interesting, Eve. I’d rather talk to you than anyone else here.”

The butterflies are back, although fluttering around with less force than normal. Maybe Eve’s drunkenness makes her feel numb to them or maybe she’s just getting better at suppressing them. 

“I’ll bore you.” Eve insists. 

“Fine, I’ll question you. What’s your favourite colour?”

“Purple.” It’s the heading colour of Villanelle’s cam page. Pretty purple gradient background and her name in purple block caps at the top. There’s currently something very early 2000’s about the site, looking like it needs Flash Player to run and incorporates a tacky designer cursor on arrival, a neon pink box surrounding every picture. It’s for aesthetic purposes, and the design changes monthly, but it’s always predominantly purple. That’s obviously not the exclusive reason Eve likes the colour purple, though. It’s also the colour of like, grapes, and stuff. Right?

“Favourite animal?”

“Seahorse.” 

(Favourite camgirl? Villanelle. Villanelle? Right in front of her.)

“Favourite body part?”

“Well, that’s a weird question. Do you mean on other people?”

On Villanelle, it’d probably be her neck — long and pale, begging to be kissed and licked and bitten. Maybe it’d be her lips — watching them wrap round her dildo or press kisses on another girl’s clit or pout when her audience won’t let her come. Maybe it’d be her boobs — the way they bounce when she’s getting fucked, the way she’s always idly cupping them even in safe for work shows, the nipple piercings Eve’s come to know so well. 

“Let me rephrase. What’s the first thing you’re attracted to when talking to someone? Like, flirting with someone.”

“Eyes, I guess?” It’s a straight-up lie, she doesn’t give a fuck about people’s eyes normally — but with Oksana’s staring at her so intensely in this moment, it gets blurted out on instinct. Boobs might be her real answer, what with Oksana’s sitting so pretty in her bikini, the indents of her piercings evident and begging to be stared at by everyone here. Eve’s seen her fair share of Oksana’s boobs over the last year, though. She’s seen her fair share of _every_ part of her body over the last year. It feels all too familiar sitting with her, catching death together in a lukewarm jacuzzi in September. Eve shouldn’t recognise the freckles and moles littered across Oksana’s chest and stomach and neck, normally covered up by turtlenecks and tweed pinafores and white-collar shirts and two-piece suits whilst at work. Eve literally shouldn’t know anything about her outside of work. “What’s the first thing you notice?”

“Lips.” Oksana doesn’t even have to think, biting her own as she responds. Confidence is dripping off her as she not-so-subtley glances down to Eve’s — something Eve swears she’s been doing the entire time they’ve been talking. Maybe she has. Flirting is flirting and rarely ever means anything. Oksana’s bored and overly friendly, nothing wrong with that.

Eve wants the fucking ground to swallow her up when the only word she can muster in reply is ‘nice.’ Fucking ‘nice.’

Eve’s looking up at Oksana and she can’t remember when they got so fucking close together but she can feel Oksana’s arm against her own and if Eve moves her thigh an inch to the right, their legs will be touching under the water and Oksana’s almost smiling at her. A confident hand moves to Eve’s shoulder, tucking back a strand of hair that slipped from her bun and got wet from the water and every touch is sending waves of electricity through Eve and it’s a lot to take in all at once. 

And maybe it’s the alcohol, definitely it’s the alcohol, but Eve lifts her hand up to touch Oksana’s cheek, internally cooing as she visibly blushes and tangibly heats up at the gentle touch. As much as Eve tries to push it to the back of her mind, this is Villanelle. She’s touching Villanelle and sharing a somewhat random intimacy with Villanelle. The girl of her dreams. The girl she’s fantasised about having under her, on top of her, all around her. The girl she’s daydreamed about coming home from work to, watching a movie and cooking dinner together with, waking up together sweaty from their nighttime cuddling. It’s always been a far-fetched, impossible fantasy but now Oksana’s hand is on the back of Eve’s neck and the gap between their faces is slowly closing in and everything has amounted to this. 

The warm breath from Oksana’s nose is hitting Eve’s cupids bow and her lips are so, so fucking close that Eve can almost feel them already and she’s never been so ready for anything in her life and Oksana’s closing the final space between them and—

“Your taxi’s here, Eve!” 

Eve’s snapped away in an instant, pulling back as soon as Elena’s call interrupts them in the worst possible way. But also probably the best possible way. Eve hasn’t worked her ass off for years to go kiss her employee and let herself down, but a drunk kiss with someone isn’t a crime and this is the girl of her dreams so there could be an exception. 

Oksana’s frowning and awkwardly avoiding eye contact as Eve quickly lifts herself out of the pool and grabs her towel and clothes, still dazed and drunk and dizzy and questioning if that really just happened. Or almost happened, whatever. 

“I’ll see you Monday?” Eve asks like it’s a question. They fucking work together, of course she’ll see her on Monday, but it has all the awkwardness of a morning-after-the-night-before situation. All too familiar to the “I’ll see you next time?” post-hookup dialogue, both parties knowing that there won’t be a next time. 

They won’t be drunk together again until the Christmas party, meaning Eve can’t blame any kisses on alcohol anymore until the fucking Christmas party three months from now, painfully far considering she was so fucking close tonight. 

“See you Monday.” Oksana agrees, offering a small smile and head nod, raising her glass of water to Eve. “I know I said it already, but I really like talking to you. You shouldn’t call yourself boring again.”

A smile is all Eve can muster as a reply. A genuine, heartfelt smile. “Bye, enjoy the rest of your night.”

“Hey, wait. Let me give you my number.” Eve can’t say no to that even though she really, really objectively should. She hands her phone over to Oksana without much hesitation, watching as the girl texts herself a smiley face. “Text me when you get home safe, okay?”

The whole taxi ride home, Eve’s thinking. Thinking about what could’ve been, what almost happened, thinking about what Oksana must be thinking. Maybe she made the whole thing up. Sure, their lips were just an inch apart, but maybe Oksana was leaning down to whisper something or maybe she was just switching her position and got a little too close to Eve in the process. 

The feeling of Oksana’s hot breath above Eve’s lips is lingering long after it stopped, hanging around like a steam burn. She was so, so fucking close to confirming just how soft her imagination tells her Oksana’s lips must be, how good a kisser she is. Villanelle’s been known to gently hold her partner by the neck when she’s kissing them, and Eve wonders if it’s a porn habit or a real-life characteristic she has. Maybe Eve would’ve felt Oksana’s long fingers and velvet hands gently rest around her throat and she would’ve died right there

Her drunken mind is reeling and although she’s mainly mourning what could’ve been, she’s also super impressed at her own game. Getting in the jacuzzi with Oksana was an achievement in itself by Eve’s standards, let alone letting her guard down enough to share some personal details and touch and almost-kiss and exchange numbers. 

And _oh shit._

They actually exchanged numbers. 

Eve feels the phone in her pocket immediately double in weight, suddenly digging sharply into her thigh and begging her to text Oksana. Send her anything. Say hi. Send her a dog picture. Send her a drunken selfie. Send her nudes. Send her literally anything. 

But Eve decides that maybe it’s safer to wait until she’s sober. And whether that means sober from the alcohol or sober from her Villanelle addiction, she has no idea. 

\- - -

It’s Sunday, two days since their almost-kiss and Eve’s avoiding any new Messages notifications like the plague. 

Eve doesn’t text her when she gets home safe. Doesn’t text her at all, actually. But neither did Oksana, so they’re even. One step further from victory, but even nonetheless. 

Of course, Eve’s typed messages that were mulled over before being completely backspaced in a blind panic — a _Hey, how’s the hangover?_ was typed the morning after the party as Eve grappled with a splitting headache and muscle aches, before she remembered that Oksana only drinks water and wouldn’t relate to that. Her go-to conversation starter was well and truly fucked. Then, that afternoon she attempted to send a _Hey, are you working late on Tuesday?_ solely just to start a conversation — it’s in her contract that she works late on Tuesdays. Maybe Eve could’ve followed through with a _Bet you can’t wait!_ or a _Poor you!_ but honestly, who wants to spend their free time texting their boss about their work schedule? At night, she typed a _Hey, did you see where I put my project files on Friday?_ in a second attempt at plucking up a conversation from thin air. The project files were sat on her desk and she knew that, but Oksana didn’t have to. Just like the other attempts, though, it got swiftly deleted. 

Eve can’t help but wonder why it’s so easy to talk to Villanelle and so impossible to talk to Oksana. When talking to Villanelle, she has all the courage to flatter and compliment her until she’s reaping the blush on her face, endless _Good girl_ and _Such a pretty girl_ comments that Villanelle swoons over. It’s all in the anonymity, she supposes. Her display name on Villanelle’s page is literally just ‘Eve’, but that could be anyone. The first woman on Earth was called Eve, it’s hardly a dependable identifier.

Eve’s thoughts are stopped altogether when she checks her phone after an early night’s sleep to a text from Oksana, revieved at 2:23am. _watching a nature documentary and it’s talking about seahorses!! i see why you like them now_

And _fuck._

Oksana even types like Villanelle. How the fuck is she meant to respond to that? How is she meant to reply like it’s not the girl she’s been paying to talk to for the last year, talking to her for free? Like it’s not Villanelle talking to her about fucking seahorses?

Her contact name is saved as Ojdana from Eve’s drunken, sloppy typing on Friday night and maybe it’s best to keep it like that. Psychologically trick herself into thinking it’s not really her, or something. 

She’ll keep the conversation going, this could be her only chance. _What were you watching? Was it good?_

_blue planet!! i love nature documentaries so yes of course. i’ve probably seen every one on netflix_

_Send recommendations my way,_ Eve has to think about this one. Like really, really think about it. _sweetheart!_

And fuck it, she presses send. It’s an innocent nickname. It’s also Eve’s nickname for Villanelle and always has been, but above all, it’s an innocent nickname. The way she immediately locks her phone before Oksana even has a chance to read it and throws it away to get lost in her bedsheets doesn’t do a good job of backing her up on that, but so be it. 

\- - -

Eve shouldn’t be watching. She knows that. God knows that. Everyone knows that. No hypothetical omniscient being can yell at her this time, because she already knows that. 

Villanelle’s live and squatting, wearing only a pair of knee high socks and grey cotton panties, with a magic wand vibrator buzzing relentlessly over the top of them. 

She’s hasn’t made direct contact with her clit at all yet, just taking her time to rile herself up through the panties. There’s a small dark spot right where her hole is, wetness visibly seeping out already, exacerbated by the light grey underwear. It’s one of Villanelle’s selling points, how wet she can get, to the point that Eve sometimes wonders if it’s just lube applied off camera. This can’t be though, because she can see dark patch slowly grow bigger and bigger with every desperate noise she lets out.

Villanelle’s not interacting with the audience or even reading the comments at all, just sitting back with her eyes closed and doing what she wants at the pace she wants. Eve always likes it best like this, likes when she’s not faking or being pressured into going faster or slower or taking more clothes off. It’s just Eve watching her girl getting herself off with no intruders, no interruptions and no performance, listening to her little whines and watching her thighs twitch as she gets closer and closer to her peak. 

When Villanelle clicks a button on the wand to turn the vibrations up stronger, Eve knows she’s really close to it. Her feet start shuffling and she’s raising her hips to buck desperately against the wand, whines turning to moans and expletives. Her free left hand is clenching and unclenching on her thigh and Eve’s all too familiar with this routine, knowing exactly what’s a real and fake orgasm by her little repeated habits. After a year of exclusively watching one single pornstar, it’s natural to pick up on these things. 

The darkened spot slowly but surely gets wider as Villanelle falls silent, head thrown back and thighs ready to give out at any moment. Individual drops of water landing on the bathroom tiles beneath her is what alerts Eve that Villanelle’s coming especially hard tonight, and when the little drops graduate into a squirt all over her panties and thighs and into a puddle on her bathroom floor, Eve can’t help but feel weirdly proud of her. 

Eve witnessed the first time Villanelle ever squirted on cam, probably around three months ago. It was very chill and honest and somewhat unsexy, marketed as a women-only ‘Learn With Me,’ mainly consisting of Villanelle giggling in an empty porcelain bathtub and drinking cups of water one after the other and having orgasm after orgasm until she finally succeeded on the fourth attempt. When she did, it was nothing too insane, but her goofy celebrations and excitement afterwards endeared Eve and hundreds of other women to tip her more than they normally would as a congratulations of sorts. Watching her get all frustrated and mad when it didn’t work out made Eve’s heart melt and she couldn’t stop wishing she could be the one touching her, and making her feel good and cuddling her afterwards, telling her she did such a good job. But she couldn’t. And she still can’t. And she never will. 

Villanelle comes down from her high, still panting and tired out and looks down at the ground, realising the mess she made and immediately getting adorably excited. 

“Holy shit! Did you guys see that? That’s probably my best one so far.”

And Eve has to leave a comment because it’s their _thing_ on squirt shows. Like, she comments on every other one of Villanelle’s shows, but on squirt shows it’s their _thing._ Or maybe it’s an excuse but who the fuck cares, Eve’s typing before any moral compass can rear its head and sway her decision. 

_Good job tonight, sweetheart! Proud of you_

“Thank you, Eve! I’m getting better, right?” Villanelle smiles, wiggling her butt as she continues to read out and react to her other comments and Eve can’t ignore the butterflies in her stomach that always erupt when Villanelle talks to her. 

_So much better, baby :) + $15_

There’s no excuse for the tip, but it already happened and there’s no takebacks and that’s that. 

Villanelle stands up for a moment to take off her soaked underwear and hold them up for the camera, still visibly in shock at how _much_ came out of her. 

“I’ll post these to whoever tips the highest in the next two minutes. I think they’re worth like fifty, right?”

She always does this, downplays her worth so that the paypigs work overtime to try impress her. It’s a smart skill. She’ll say something’s worth $10 and take nothing less than $100 for it. Some guys get off on the humiliation, the thought of being used like her personal ATM for nothing in return, others genuinely want to see her buy herself nice things to improve her shows and brighten her day. Either way, Villanelle gets the money and she’ll never complain. 

“$150 from DavidJ. Any higher?”

So many tips are coming in all at once and Eve can’t imagine the excitement her girl must be feeling at the sight of hundreds of dollars rolling in every thirty seconds. She’s anticipating the humiliation kink fuelling comment from Villanelle any second now. 

“Ooh... $200 from CatLover99. Does anyone have any more for me? Is that the best you pigs can do?” There it is. “I’ll throw in these socks for the winner, too.”

“Another $100 from DavidJ, perfect! Any higher than $250?”

For a moment, Eve’s own cursor hovers on the tip button. She won’t click it though. Isn’t even thinking about clicking it. The cursor’s just there for some reason. She isn’t going to tip. 

“$300 from Pete352!” Villanelle squeaks, as she looks up at her clock with seconds to go. “Time’s up! Thank you, Pete! Inbox me your details and address and I’ll post them out to you as soon as I can.”

And Eve absolutely isn’t kicking herself. She isn’t wishing she tipped because that would be weird. Too weird. It didn’t even cross her mind once. She wants nothing to do with Villanelle’s wrecked underwear. 

It doesn’t explain why Eve heads to bed that evening cursing Pete352’s name, but maybe it’s best not to dwell on that. 

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u so much for reading!!!
> 
> so i suffered a fucking brain injury a couple days after posting ch1 so thats my good excuse for not updating. im not even suppose to use my phone or screens yet here we are
> 
> also if u guys have any requests for this fic (specifically stuff u wanna see in v’s shows) im all ears!!! there’s only so many porn scenarios 1 brain can come up with
> 
> twitter: @astankovas_


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